III. Sorrow

Dawn reddens in the wake of night; but the days of our life return not. Sweet-scented orchids blot out the path; but they die in the drift of waters and their flowers are blotted out. The Yang-tse-Kiang splashes through shelving maple-woods. The eye contains a far horizon, but the wound of spring lies deep in the heart. O Poet! turn thee to the Capital—to the men who shall make thee forget. Surely, the Earth-sorrow for the passing of spring from her quiet places is overwhelming.